


which way are you headed boy, do you need some company

by Writerofshit (kay_samm)



Series: and when you choke I will break your ribs just to make sure you're alright [1]
Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Gen, Pre-Fake AH Crew
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-21
Updated: 2020-04-21
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:07:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23775835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kay_samm/pseuds/Writerofshit
Summary: Michael meets Ray during one of his lowest points.He also gets some tips on robbing gas stations.
Relationships: Michael Jones & Ray Narvaez Jr.
Series: and when you choke I will break your ribs just to make sure you're alright [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1712707
Comments: 2
Kudos: 7





	which way are you headed boy, do you need some company

Before the crew, before Ray, Michael was exactly as much of a lone wolf as the Vagabond had been. He worked with crews here and there, had a name for himself in explosions and fire. At the time, he was mostly robbing convenience stores to get by, got picked up for the occasional job. He was often hired as distraction, as bait, as _look here at this beautiful destruction and never notice that you’ve lost everything I didn’t burn to the ground_.

He set security sometimes, proximity mines and tripwires that were so well placed you’d be dead before you even knew you were in trouble. Very rarely, when times were exceptionally tough, he’d use his intimate knowledge of his own work against whoever hired him. And even though he didn’t owe these assholes anything, it still always felt like betrayal. They trusted him to help and he did, but in the end he fucked them over.

He never liked taking those jobs too much.

He met Ray during one of his lowest points.

He’d set up security for a gang, close knit but somehow feeling off to Michael. It was money, though, and so he did it. Tricked out a warehouse with dozens upon dozens of cameras, lined nearly a mile of winding road with the same, along with enough latent bombs to make the whole neighborhood disappear with one wrong move. He explained to them, a thousand fucking times that they had to be careful, that if they fucked up they would destroy everything they had out there. They had wanted it that way, just in case anybody managed to get close enough.

 _Insurance_ , they said.

 _Bullshit_ , Michael had thought. 

But money is money is money so whatever, give them what they want.

He knew, somewhere inside of himself, that they had a plan for all of this. He knew there had to be more than what they presented. So when a week goes by after the job has been wrapped up, and he gets a call claiming he fucked up, somebody got through and it's his fault, he'd better come out and fix his mistakes, he doesn’t quite believe it. Because he knows his work, he knows that for all the mistakes he makes everywhere else in life, he does not make them in this.

But he goes, and it’s not until he’s getting cracked over the head with a fucking rock of all things, does he realize it’s a set up. Probably has been from day one.

He comes to inside, bound to a chair in the middle of the warehouse, surrounded by four douchebags with guns in hand. Being Michael he starts yelling, arguing, threatening. The torture that ensues, he knows, is simply for the hell of it. 

That fact becomes even more apparent when he sees the girls.

Now, he’s hardly 23 and done some fucked up shit, lost track of the lives lost to him, some far too innocent for it to have been fair. He’s set up hundreds if not thousands of people to fail, to go to jail, to die. He’s lied, cheated, stolen, killed for nothing more than a paycheck and sometimes just a good time. He’s trafficked drugs and weapons and information. He’s been on the other side of negotiation, of torture, of skinning secrets out of people. Michael Jones is not a nice boy.

Human trafficking is a whole different ball park.

When he realizes who these guys are, what they’re really doing with this warehouse, he makes a decision. He might not make it out of this alive, but he’ll be damned if these pieces of shit will make it either. He starts to plan.

He makes it two days in there, watching, waiting, until he finds his time to strike. 

Now, years and a lot of effort to forget later, he’s mostly blocked out the details. All he remembers is getting out, running, silent apologies to the women he couldn’t really save. Sure he kept them from the future they would have had, but he also robbed them of their lives. He tries to rationalize it with the fact that they were honestly better off dead than living in what the men had planned for them. And at least the crew is dead too.

He leaves it all behind once it’s all smoldering wreckage, once he’s sure he’s the only one walking away. He makes it back to the city and he’s not sure how to stop the shaking in his soul.

Drugs.

Drugs have to be the way, anything he can get his hands on. He tries to rob a convenience store for the cash, intending, for once, to leave the cashier alive.

That’s when he meets Ray.

He enters the convenience store quietly, gun in his waistband and hands shoved deep in his pockets. He surveys quickly, up and down the few aisles before silently declaring all clear. He pauses in front of the gum of all things, gearing himself up. It’s not like he's never done this before. It’s just different in this moment, to feel alright in this life after what he'd been subjected to in the previous several days. But goddamn, that’s what he needs this money to drown out. One more deep breath, and-

“Alright, hands in the fucking air, nobody has to get hurt.” he tacks that point on, unusual for him, despite the gun drawn in the cashier’s face. He wants to promise this. Wants to keep it, for once.

“Are you fucking serious right now?” comes a voice from the other end of the store. Michael turns, one arm outstretched, still training the gun on the cashier. There’s a kid, maybe 19 if he's being generous, dark hair, glasses, and a ratty balck hoodie. There’s a gun in his hand. “That was supposed to be my line.”

“Who the fuck are you?” Because what else is he supposed to say at this moment? There’s no fucking way this kid is a cop, no way he should be anywhere near a gun, doesn’t look like an employee.

“The guy who was about to rob this lovely cashier, until you so rudely interrupted.” The kid says, striding forward confidently next to Micael, despite the very real possibility he’d be shot.

(Weeks later, Michael would tell him that's why he didn’t do it. He had to know what that was about, couldn’t wreck confidence like that. Years later he would tell the real truth.)

“Hey man,” the kid nods at the cashier, “If I had yelled first, something like, you know, _this is a robbery, give me the fucking money_ or whatever, would you have been more or less scared?”

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Michael asks, because a) he knows he has a point, and b) he genuinely can’t help himself.

The kid ignores him in favor of continuing to have a one-sided conversation with the cashier. “Seriously man, be honest. I can handle the truth. Although,” he waves the gun between Michael and the cashier, “I guess there’s no right answer, you’re gonna hurt one of our feelings.” He glances back at Michael. “Are you not a little bit curious?”

And Michael, despite having spent the last several years deliberately Not Curious about people, not investing in anything besides jobs and getting his own ass out alive- he’s admittedly intrigued by the casual nature of this guy, how nonchalantly he treats robbery.

“Not really. Mostly wanted the fucking money and to get the fuck out of here.” Is what he says instead. 

“Fair point.” The kid tucks the gun behind himself and backs into the aisle, both hands up as if in surrender. “Please, be my guest.”

Michael tries to put the kid out of his mind, though he can’t help but be hyper aware of the eyes trained on the back of his neck. The cashier is shoving money into a plastic bag, and maybe Michael should be focusing closer, making sure it’s all in there, that there’s no panic buttons being pressed. But he lucks out, he leaves before anybody shows up or gets hurt. As he climbs on his bike he meets the kid’s eyes through the window.

They both nod.

A week later and the money's gone. Michael is in another gas station. It shouldn't feel like deja vu but it does, as he surveys and once again declares a silent all clear. Same shout, same gun, same result.

“Son of a _bitch._ ”

It’s the kid again, because of course the universe would do this to him.

“What the fuck?”

The kid emerges from the bathroom this time, gun gripped tight and a purple hoodie instead of black.

“Fuck you man, you’re not doing this to me again.” He’s not pointing the gun at Michael, but at the cashier. He seems to have an affinity for making conversation with clerks, because he turns his attention to him. “I don’t care what he says, that money is mine. Or like, you’re giving it to me. Whatever, same difference.”

And Michael, for what it’s worth, has managed to distance himself _marginally_ from where his mind was a week ago, so he can lean into this a little more, doesn’t want out and done so immediately. He can humor this kid for a minute.

“Fuck that. I asked first.”

“I was _here_ first. Both times, actually.” Which is fair.

“Yeah, but I took _action_ first, man, that’s what counts.” Which is true.

“That’s _bullshit._ ”

“Be a little quicker on the draw, is all I'm saying. It’s like calling shotgun. You can be in the seat, but if I call it out first, you can bet your ass is moving.” It’s probably then that Michael decides he’s going to figure this kid out. Because despite his words, he knows the situation is absolutely _not_ like calling shotgun in a car. And yet-

“Fuck. Fine. Fair point, I guess.” The kid rolls his eyes, irritated. He steps back again, although he doesn’t tuck his gun away this time. He does lower it, hanging loosely in his hand as he surveys the snack aisle.

“Glad you see it my way.” Michael turns back to the cashier. “Alright, come on, fucking money, bag, you know the drill.”

“God, not only are you an asshole, you don’t put any of that personality into your actual robbery.” The kid says, eyes still on the Mars Bars. “ _You know the drill.”_ The kid mumbles mockingly. “Fucking weak.”

“Excuse me?” It’s this moment that actually changes the trajectory of their lives, sends them into futures they never dreamed for themselves. Michael turns his back on the cashier to continue arguing with the kid. The cashier, of course, takes this opportunity to trigger the silent alarm. Which is smart. Saying aloud ‘ _God I hope this alarm works’_ is not.

“Jesus, and he hit the goddamn alarm. Do you have any idea what you’re doing at _all?”_ The kid is stuffing hershey’s bars into his pockets.

“Jesus fucking Christ, like you’d do any better with some asshole insulting you from the goddamn candy aisle.” Michael is _pissed, n_ ot only is the dude seriously annoying, but he also really fucking needed the money.

“Easy. Move.” The kid turns swiftly on his heel and marches toward the counter, gun trained between the cashier’s widened eyes. “Hey, dickhead. Couple of pointers. A) not a great plan to announce that you hit the _silent_ alarm. Kinda defeats the purpose.”

“Are you actually lecturing him on how to protect himself in a robbery? Right now?” Michael really cant help himself. 

“Shut up, I’m teaching. B) Panic button doesn’t mean stop putting money in the bag. Still want that shit. Because, and this brings me to point C), You seem to forget what city you’re in. It’ll take them at least 10 minutes, and I plan to be eating a burger by then. So hurry on up.”

The kid glances back at Michael, but keeps most of his focus on the cashier. “See how much more fun this is? Wasn’t that better than _you know the drill?_ ” he says the last part mockingly, and with a smirk. “Personality man. It’s key.”

“No more lessons for him? Art of self defense, maybe?" Michael offers, unable to keep a smirk off of his face.

“Nah.” The cashier hands the kid a plastic bag filled with money. “I also took five hershey’s bars, just so you know. Inventory, all that.” he glances in the bag, then back at Michael. “You wanna get a burger with me? Sorry I took the money, you’re welcome for the tutoring sesh, my treat?”

“You’re fucking insane.” Michael says, because what else is he supposed to say to that?

“That's… you didn't answer my question, man.”

So he does. “Sure?”

“Fuck yeah. You mind if we take your bike? Hell of a lot faster than running, and you know, eventually cops will show up. Especially after this.” The kid shoots just next to the cashier, it seems like barely missing. “Hope you get fired for the bullet holes in the Marlboro’s. That’s what you get for hitting the goddamn button." He turns again, strides toward the door. “Alright, let’s blow this popsicle stand.” He walks confidently up to Micheal’s bike, so he has no choice but to follow. The first time in a long line of many.

He swings himself on wordlessly, and the kid climbs on behind him, hands warm on his waist. He kicks the bike to life, and suddenly, the stranger is leaning into him, lips to his ear.

“Oh yeah, I’m Ray, by the way. Also a poet.”

And Micheal, pulling away from the gas station he just robbed with a stranger, with _Ray,_ laughs in spite of himself. It’s exhilarating, doing this, not just focusing on jobs and being alone. Shutting out memories of things he’d seen and replacing them with Ray’s grip on him and street signs whipping by.

“Michael.” he yells back, hoping it doesn’t get lost in the wind.

Ray is still leaned into him, his lips are still brushing Michael’s ear.“Nice to meet you, Michael. Can we go to Taco Bell instead, I’m not feeling a burger anymore.”

“It’s your asshole.” Michael shouts back, rerouting the trip in his head, avoiding the direction he can hear distance sirens wailing.

The response is the first time Michael hear’s that trademark, rapid fire laughter. It is far from the last.


End file.
